Pointy Hearts and Polka-Dot Leggings7/25/13You cling to me, the memory of you clings to me, as much as I cling to it. You're there in my head every single day of course, but you're also there in more tangible ways, like the milk crate you didn't need when you moved out that's now full of my stuff. You're there in the red polka-dot leggings I rescued from your cast-offs, leggings that don't smell like you two months later but which I'll keep and maybe even wear, in some melodramatic solidarity with things you once must have loved but don't want anymore, imagining parallels in myself.You are in this notebook, one of several you gave me on the same occasion as the milk crate, notebooks you used but didn't fill, notebooks with perforated edges missing their pages like gangly grape stems left once all the grapes have been eaten. You are especially in the pages of the notebooks that you didn't tear out, the notes about theater history and conducting tempos, the drawing of a building in Heidelberg, Germany labeled, “Urb
To Extra-Sharp Cabot CheddarWe always get the biggest block.My parents remain amazed that you can get Vermont cheddarAt a Wal-MartIn Kentucky.You've always been "our cheese"Even since I was young enough to be self-consciousThat my cheese wasn't orangeAnd my bread wasn't white.You are shredded into macaroni and burritosMelted inside quesadillasSliced and carefully arranged on sandwichesStirred into bowls full of soup beansThere was a time when you were boringUnexciting to young taste buds.Then I found you again cut into a square atop a Ritz crackerLate at night in the kitchen with friends,The precious midnight snack.Maybe accompanied by a single pepperoniOr piled high, cracker cheese cracker cheese cracker, big mouths only.Someone once told me"Even if I get the same kind of cheese and the same kind of crackersThey taste better at your house."You don't realize the things that made youUntil you discover them somewhere elseAnd come home to them again.Recipe for perfection:One Ritz crackerOn
Written on a Napkin, 4/10/13I'm sitting with you as you figureout your life on brown paper napkins.We use these as notepaper,as tiny disposable canvases, assculpting materials and, balled up,as weapons.Are the plans we make andthe pictures we draw of thesame importance as the greaseand ketchup we wipe from our lips?You blow your nose on the samenapkin that held your grand plansand I wonder how much any ofthe things we put on thesethin paper rectangles can matter.